The Last Days
by White-Lily-Blossom
Summary: A short look on the hours before the last battle. HarryDraco. rnWarning: Angst, much.


Desclaimer: Everything belongs to JK Rowling, Genius that she is.

A/N: This just popped into my head, and had practicaly written itself, in less than an hour. I want to thank my muses, my computer, and the lovely Star Of The North, who has done my Beta.

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The air is cold, dusty from the dirt they disturbed as they hurried around. Despite the bustle, it is quiet, the gloomy, foreboding walls of Grimmuald place closing in on them, suffocating them; the battle looming in front of them choking the laughter of everyone's eyes.

The final battle. Draco does not want to think about it, does not want to acknowledge the implications it might have on them, on him.

He can see Hermione and Weasley from the corner of his eye, their faces grim. They are holding hands, tightly, as if hanging on for dear life. The little Weasley lass- Ginevra, and not so little anymore- is pressed into Thomas, both curled up in a chair, and folded into each other as if trying to crawl under the other's skin; desperate and frightened from what the future may bring, and trying to find comfort.

Draco wants to fold into Harry as well, to push him into a corner, to hold on to him so he won't leave, to cuff them together, maybe, just to be sure he will stay with him. For a moment, he even entertains the notion of knocking Harry out cold, and locking him in some forgotten room- to keep him safe, so he can, in turn, keep Draco sane.

Harry wanders in, his stride purposeful, confidant, and the room seems to brighten just by his presence; he is their beacon of light, their one hope of survival, their last, desperate Ace. They all turn to him, like flowers to the sun, pale, tired faces shining with love, and the belief that he will save them all.

Draco wants to scream at them; instead, he digs his fingernails into his palms, hard enough to draw blood, and says nothing.

Harry comes over to him, smiles at him, and Draco, for once throwing all his dignity out the window, hurls himself into his waiting, open arms.

"You don't have to do this," he mumbles, darkly, between the fierce, angry kisses he showers on Harry's mouth. His hands are fisted in Harry's robes, clutching as if he is never going to let go; his body is pressed hard against Harry, every bone evident in their nineteen-year-old-bodies. They are all so exhausted, so, so thin, and Harry the worst of them all; he is never asleep, always on training or duty or research, and never eating, except from what Draco or Molly Weasley force into his mouth. At night, when he collapses next to Draco for a few insane, dazed hours, they don't even make love anymore; instead, they press into each other as firmly as they can, a tangle of limbs, and while Harry sleeps the sleep of the truly weary, Draco counts his eyelashes, and mesmerizes his face.

Draco doesn't waste their short time together on resting; there is not enough of it as it is, with the final battle coming closer every day, and Draco feels as though Harry, and not only their time, is slipping through his fingers, despite every effort he does to hold him back. There is enough time to sleep when they are dead, he feels, and doesn't continue that train of thought.

"You know I do," Harry tells him now, gently, and the words come out fragmented because of Draco's lips on his. "For us, not just for the world". Draco sighs, feeling tears sting at his eyes; he wipes them away angrily. It's not that he doesn't believe in Harry; if anyone can do it, it's him, and Draco will be there, by his side, for as long as it takes. It's just that Harry is nineteen, barely out of school, and Draco, for all his lack of divination skills, can feel every muscle and bone in his body screaming out in dread.

"I can do it," Harry tells him, kissing away the tears "I was born for this". He really believes it, Draco knows; it was drilled into him since before he learned his first charms, rooted to the very moment he found out what he was, even before he found out whom.

You were born for this, Draco wants to say to him, to plead and make him understand; but I was born for you, and what would I do if you're gone? Instead, He hugs Harry tighter, and hopes his belief is enough.

"How much time do we have?" he asks suddenly, and Harry frowns "an hour or two, I think". Draco nods firmly, and grabs Harry's hand "come on" he says. Harry laughs, the only cheerful sound in this house, which Draco has grown to hate ever since they came here "where are we going?" he asks.

"Bedroom," Draco announces, and Harry stops, shaking his head, although his eyes are twinkling behind his glasses, the only thing healthy looking about him. "Not now" he says, and cuts Draco's protests off with a grin and a whispered promise: after, Draco, after, and we'll have all the time in the world.

He gathers Draco into his arms again, and Draco cannot bring himself to explain his desperation.

"I need to go back to the war council," he says, and kisses the top of Draco's head before letting him go. He peels Draco's fingers from the fabric of his robes, smiles at him one last time, and leaves, his confidence and determination all that holds his gaunt, fatigued body from falling apart. Draco stands and watches the doorway, long after he's gone.

He sees him only briefly before they all apparate out; he looks energetic and focused, but they all do, courtesy of the strongest Energizing Potions Severus managed to brew. He is all dark hair and robes in the darkness, his cheekbones razor-sharp under his too-white skin, his teeth a flash of white in the dark when he turns to say something to Lupin. Draco looks at him, and etches his figure into his mind, just in case.

Then they are at the battleground, and it is all screams and light and people falling, and nothing more. Eventually it all fades to white noise, as Draco concentrates on staying alive, and loses track of Harry in the mass of warriors, the smells of blood and rain and wet earth and fire and death overwhelming his senses.

It is the small hours of morning when it is finally over; Draco, shaking and barely on his feet, apparates back to the house after a mediwizard proclaims him fit, despite his small, shallow injuries. He is slowly joined by the rest of the order; Hermione, with her arm in a sling and a bad burn on her shoulder, Lupin with nothing more than dirt on his face, Ginny Weasley and Dean Thomas supporting an injured Seamus Finnigan between them. They all sit around the table in the kitchen and wait for the owls; Weasley in the hospital, head injury, Dumbledore finally overpowered, dead, Mundugus Fletcher missing.

He doesn't think, concentrating on a spot on the wall and nothing more, as the light grows stronger, illuminating everyone's anxious and worried faces. And then, when the sun rises above the horizon, a last owl arrives, collapsing on the dirty, foot-prints covered floor, and Ginny opens the massage with trembling fingers and a soft, true smile breaks on her face, along with her gasp- the first in a long time. Voldemort is gone, for good.

Everyone bursts out crying, laughing, talking in shaky, disbelieving voices, hugging each other; Draco sits frozen, separated from their happiness, even as they start talking about going to St. Mongus, the improvised, temporary hospital wings that have sprouted everywhere like mushroom after the rain, the battlefields. He knows, suddenly, undoubtedly, what he knew all along; he knows it in his heart, which drops like lead, like a great gaping whole in his body, knows it by the image that appears, like it was burned there, on his eyelids, of Harry flashing him a smile last night; the war is over, and they won.

And Harry isn't coming back.

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A/N: My friend said the end is a bit confusing- the fact that only Draco is sad that Harry's gone, or the only one clever enough to understand he is. It's not that- it's just that the others had more faith that he'd survive, because they were there from the begining when he defeated Voldemort every time and Draco wasn't, and because Draco grew up in the other world, the world of the Death Eaters, so he knows the real strength of Voldemort, or at least he knows it better than them.


End file.
